


At the Edge

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can never say what they should, which deprives them of what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2012 when I was eighteen, and is now being crossposted here with the rest of my work. I remember this was the first time I'd ever shipped a slash pairing. Ha. I was so young and innocent...

He stood, toes dipping into the empty air. It was amazing, this feeling. If he weren't about to die, he would have appreciated it. There was a feeling of elation, a wild expectation that if he were to simply push off with his heels, he could fly. But there was a very real danger, a mortality that made itself physically known to him.

He wobbled for a second before righting himself. He had to wait. He had to wait for John. The terribly inconvenient need for him to be there, to be visible to him, was too great to be ignored.

_Hurry up, John. Please hurry up--look at that. I'm begging you. Not asking, John, begging. You'd laugh, wouldn't you, if this was any other time but it's not that kind of time, is it John? I doubt you'll ever laugh again. You're rather sentimental that way._

Of course, sentimentality would mess it all up. He'd found something that kept him from being bored, had reached an understanding with the Yard--or part of the Yard--and then… John had come.

It had started out all right. Perhaps there was a niggling feeling that John was different, but certainly nothing sentimental. It was analytical, an observation, nothing more. Something had drawn him to the man, and he'd offered to share the flat. They'd grown closer to one another, as people do. It surprised him, as he'd never been  _close_  to anyone before, but it worked.

_And yet it worked too well. That's the root of the issue, isn't it? You're everything I'm not, all normal and in touch with your feelings and good with people. You understand me, John. No matter how much I try to annoy you or push you away--yes, I do that on purpose at times. It shouldn't be a shock._

He could picture the look on his flatmate's face perfectly. He had memorized every inch of his face, catalogued every expression and physical trait presented there. He had an entire wing of his mind palace dedicated to one Dr. John Hamish Watson.

Quite ridiculous, really. Mycroft would have laughed his fat head off. In fact, he had taken great pains to never let his feelings show in a way that Mycroft could track down, be it financials, or overly modified behavior, or altered day-to-day activities.

He wasn't entirely sure when it all began. Perhaps it was when John had said, "Brilliant" instead of, "Bugger off." Then again, it could have been when he put up with any and every odd quirk that Sherlock threw at him. Or it might have been when he realized that it was John who'd shot that annoying cabbie. Whenever it was, John had managed to do the one thing that no one had yet done--he had made Sherlock feel. He had made him feel deeply.

_You weren't just the exception, John. You were the beginning. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… even Molly… I opened up to them because of you. It was all you, John._

Even saying his name gave him pleasure. He would never claim to be a spiritual man, not by any means, but saying John's name was as close to a prayer as he supposed he would ever get. He said it more often than he needed to, because he so loved the feel of it on his tongue.

He realized what was happening to himself long before John showed the same symptoms. Just because he did not approve of--or normally feel--emotions did not mean that he was unaware of them, either in himself or others. He simply chose to ignore it. Emotions, sentiment, feelings… they merely got in the way of logic and deduction. But they could be observed, just like anything else. When he realized that emotions were beginning to effect his actions, he deduced himself.

_I deduced that I was in love with you, John. Such a trite phrase; overused and incapable of fully expressing the emotion._

The night at the pool had to be the worst. The shooting, painful fear of betrayal--not of stupidity, but of  _betrayal_ … and then to lose it, only for it to be replaced by fear of losing the one person he had grown to truly care about. It was a feeling previously unknown to him. In fact, he doubted that he had ever truly felt an emotion before that moment. Love and fear and anger and realization all crashing down within him, filling him up and draining him down until he was practically on autopilot.

_You were willing to die with me, John. No one has ever done that. You killed for me within a couple days of our meeting. You put up with everything that I put you through. And you gave me permission to kill us both, if it meant the end of my enemy._

_Do you have any idea how remarkable you are?_

That was a bit of a problem. John was ordinary and yet extraordinary at the same time. It was a lovely paradox that Sherlock never tired of musing over. Of course, over time, his body began to have a say in things.

_I will admit that the Woman had a hand in things. I never had crushes, and I suppose that in the course of emotional development all humans must go through a 'puppy-love' phase. She was never more than an infatuation, though, John. I love you._

He loved him. Loved him enough to knock down all barriers, emotional and physical. Sherlock Holmes, who had rarely ate, avoided sleep, and had never had a wet dream that he could recall, would fantasize about his flatmate at an embarrassingly regular rate. Imagine how their skin would feel sliding together, the press of lips against his temple, neck, chest, and lower… he would feel the water in the shower and fancy that it was John's tongue. And when John was sensible enough not to wear one of his ridiculous jumpers and Sherlock could actually see his neck, he would picture himself nipping and sucking on the pale flesh revealed, peeling away the shirt (or stupid jumper) and running his hands all over. He would deduce John's pleasure spots, his responses, as surely as he deduced his thoughts and where he'd gone that day. Really, it was all most bothersome.

It didn't help that John returned his affections.

_Of course I know, John. I spend half of my time observing you. I know a person's lifetime within an hour of meeting them--how could I not deduce your feelings towards me? You believe it to be hopeless. You have no reason to think otherwise. I have certainly never given you any reason to doubt my self-proclaimed sociopathic tendencies. But your feelings are returned, John; they are returned tenfold._

_That is why I must do this._

Sherlock was never good at communication. He was quite aware of this, thank you. It would be so much easier if everyone was as observant as he was, so that he wouldn't have to spell anything out or spend time with the imbeciles that simply infested the world these days. He never knew how, or when, or what, to say confess to John. He knew that the good doctor was having enough of a time reconciling what he'd always wanted--a home, family, stability, a wife--with what he was now feeling. Far be it from Sherlock to burden his partner further with stupid declarations. Words couldn't properly describe what he was feeling, anyway.

Sometimes he wished that John were as intelligent as he was, so that John would simply figure it out and make a move himself. But he didn't know how to reveal his feelings to John without being blatantly obvious, and then the whole world would know and it wasn't any of their damn business.

Now it was too late to tell him. He had no time, and he still didn't know what to say even if he had the chance.

_Please just come, John. Please come… please._

He just had to see him. He wanted to talk to him, see his face one last time. He wasn't sure that his plan would work, but even if it did, it would be years before they spoke again. Even when he did return, the likelihood of John accepting him back into his life after deceiving him in such a fashion was not likely.

The moment he saw the cab pull up, he knew who it was. John got out, befuddled but urgent, knowing that something was wrong. When he saw Sherlock, despite the distance between them, their eyes managed to meet. It was the thinnest of lifelines, but Sherlock clung to it.

"I'm coming up there." Of course John would want to save him; always the good soldier.

_There are some wars you cannot win, John._

"No," he barked. He saw the confusion and hurt on John's face and softened his tone. "No, just… stay here. Stay where I can see you. Just… look at me. Keep looking at me."

He stretched out a hand, trying to feel. John had taught him how to feel, and now he wanted to feel John. But he couldn't. He never would. It was such a great distance… too great…

_John…_

So many things. So many things rushing around him, overwhelming his senses. It was one last attempt by his body to feel alive, to soak in everything with his senses. But only one thing stood out. Only one thing mattered.

"Keep watching me."

His voice had broken, and he knew that John could hear the sadness, the uncertainty.

_I did this because I need you. I need you to live, John._

He separated himself from the concrete and, for one moment, it was as if he could fly.

_Live for me, John._

He'd been at the edge so many times--the edge of confessing, the edge of revealing, the edge of wrecking their friendship with his admissions of sentiment--but now he was over a different kind of edge. And there was no going back.

* * *

"You need to say it, John."

He shook his head slightly, almost sporadically. It reminded him of when he'd been furious with Sherlock, shouting at him that it was  _not,_  it was  _not_  all right, and what the hell was he thinking and…

And now things were certainly not all right once again. But this time, there would be no fixing them. No realization that it was all a hallucination. No apologies, no daylight to scare away the dark creatures lurking in the corners of his mind. This was no science experiment. This was the life of his friend. The life of the man he cared for above all else.

He could never admit it to Ella. She was a good psychiatrist, and she did try hard, he'd give her that. But she didn't understand. Nobody understood. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were broken up, of course they were, but they didn't understand any more than anyone else.

Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, the man he loved… was dead.

He'd never had the courage to say the words while Sherlock was alive, and he'd be damned if he'd say them to someone else, no matter how caring, now that Sherlock was dead. Only one person deserved to receive those words, and that person could no longer hear them.

_I was a coward. I was a coward then and I'm a coward now. I can't even confide in my damn doctor. I'm a doctor! Bloody hell…_

It had taken him months to work out exactly what his feelings towards his flatmate were. The fact that he'd shot a man to save Sherlock's life within a day or two of meeting him was telling. John did not shoot men lightly. Sure, the cabbie had been a bit of a bastard, but still. And he'd done it, in cold blood, his hand steady and his mind clear. The madman was threatening his friend, and he'd gotten rid of that threat.

Then there were the girls. Oh, sure, John loved women. Still did. He appreciated them, really enjoyed them, both their company and their bodies. He honestly enjoyed a good conversation on a date, and while he'd had plenty of mates in school and at uni, he'd also had some good female friends as well. It was only natural that he'd want to settle down with one of the people he enjoyed spending time with. But after he'd met Sherlock, he found himself… not caring. His friend's unnatural ability to completely scare off every date he had was annoying, sure, but on the rare occasions when he could complete a night out, he felt unsatisfied.

 _But then I'd come home to you,_  he thought.  _I'd come home to you, and there'd be something boiling over in the stove, and glass tubes all over the table, and some weird stain on the carpet and you'd be twirling around with your violin and all I could think was this… this was satisfying. This was what I wanted._

Sherlock was what he wanted.

His maddening, brilliant, calculating, irrepressible, determined, selfish, annoying, strangely endearing consulting detective, as far from a nice, pretty woman as you could get, was what John Watson wanted.

He wasn't aware of how hard he'd fallen until they were at the pool. Moriarty hadn't done much other than gloat while getting John suited up, but he'd made a couple of comments regarding Sherlock that John hadn't particularly liked.

Before he could think, John grabbed the infuriating little man by the collar, pulling him in close.

"You harm one hair on his head, you bastard, and I swear to God–"

"Oh! Such an attack dog! He's got you well trained, hasn't he?" Moriarty replied, unfazed. He glanced down at the bomb strapped to John's body, and John let him go roughly.

Saying those lines to Sherlock by the pool was the most agonizing moment of his life. He saw the hurt and shock in his eyes, and shifted his stance slightly, just enough to show the bomb.

_It wasn't me. I'd never do this to you, I'd never betray you…_

After Moriarty had left and Sherlock had frantically ripped the fucking death contraption off of him, John made a poor attempt at a joke. Anything to distract from the fact that he'd been about to die, and all he could think about was he didn't want Sherlock to think that he'd betrayed him. Of course, a minute later they were threatening to blow themselves up to kingdom come, and take Moriarty with them, and John had to avoid thinking about a new thing: that he was perfectly fine with dying if Sherlock was there.

He really shouldn't have mentioned clothes coming off, because the moment he had time to reflect (in bed, that night) it was all that he could think about. Sherlock, ripping his clothes off. John ripping Sherlock's clothes off. No clothes at all. Just… skin. Lots of skin. And lips. Oh, yes, lips, everywhere, and teeth, sucking and biting until pain mingled with pleasure. It would be messy and uncoordinated and beautiful and perfect.

John had groaned and thrown an arm over his eyes, realizing that not only was he willing to die for his friend, but he was perfectly happy with fucking him as well. Two plus two equals four.

He'd always known he was screwed.

Now here he was, standing at Sherlock's grave. That had been quite the self-fulfilling prophecy. He'd never exactly pictured it like this. In his mind, he'd always slipped up and revealed his affections somehow, which would lead to Sherlock putting him down again--only it would be worse because that time he really  _would_  be in love with Sherlock and not the victim of misconception--and it would be awkward and he'd finally leave because he was a coward and… and it would be hell.

But this? This was infinitely worse.

_I was such a coward. I never once told you. I should have told you. I owed it to you._

It had given him such pleasure, such happiness, to watch as Sherlock warmed to him bit by bit. Sure, he'd crashed his dates and experimented on him with a potentially dangerous hallucinogenic drug and took up all the room in the flat and had no respect for John's need to sleep and eat, but he'd also apologized to John. He'd helped him up to bed when he was too tired to do it himself. He'd listened patiently while John ranted about Harry or the Tesco checkout machine. He'd sometimes even make an effort to keep the noise of his violin down, or keep one part of the kitchen clean for John to cook in. He was trying, and he was learning, and nothing gave John more joy.

_You did everything for me. You changed for me, and I could never be honest with you. That's what mates do, isn't it? They're honest with each other. But I couldn't risk it. I didn't want to lose you._

_I couldn't bear it if I lost you._

And yet, he'd still lost him, in the end. He'd give anything for Sherlock to come back. Hell, he'd even prefer that Sherlock know everything and hate him, just so long as Sherlock was alive and safe.

"Could you just do one more miracle? For me?" He was crying, damn it. He didn't care.

_Hate me, loathe me, despise me; but please…_

"Can you just… not be dead?"

_Come back._

"Can you do that, Sherlock?"

_I love you._

"For me?"

_Come back to me._

For one crazy, off-kilter moment, he almost expected Sherlock to step up next to him, stare straight ahead and make some remark about the state of John's coat or something. But the moment passed, and no Sherlock appeared.

John placed his hand on the gravestone. It was so cold, but so smooth and elegant. And perhaps, with the right conditions--a warm, sunny day--it could be warm.

He hovered at the edge of saying it, feeling almost dizzy with the force of his emotions. How many times had he stood here, toeing the line between silence and confession? How many times had he stepped away, too fearful to admit what he felt so deeply within himself?

Now he had nothing to lose. He'd already lost everything that mattered.

"I love you, you crazy bastard," he whispered, choking.

Then he walked away, too much of a coward to say goodbye.

* * *

While it was anatomically impossible for one's heart to actually break, Sherlock concluded that the metaphor was not entirely inaccurate. It certainly felt as though his vital organs were collapsing, and/or cracking into various-sized pieces. He was far away enough that John could not see him--or, if he did, as only a distant figure--but he was close enough that he could see what John was doing.

The slumped yet stiff shoulders, the slightly bowed head, the fists clenched at his sides, the tiny, sporadic movements… all things that Sherlock had observed about John over the past couple of years. John was in great pain right now. He was sad and distressed.

A clawing ache, a burning desire to go to him, hold him, assure him that he was not alone, that it would all be all right if he would only have patience, seemed to consume every atom of Sherlock's body. He tried to reassure himself that it would only take a couple of years to unravel Moriarty's web, to place everyone in jail (or kill them, whatever was necessary) and return to John.

He both hoped and feared that John would move on and get a new life. Find a wife, start a family, become a proper doctor and a pillar of his community… it would be good for John. It was what John had always wanted before he met Sherlock. John had wanted it before, and he would want it again. He would be happy.

Sherlock would be miserable, but that was inconsequential. John's happiness was more important than his own. An annoying aspect of love, it seemed, was that you put the needs and wants of the object of your affection above your own desires.

He watched as John walked away slowly. He hated to see John like this. If Moriarty weren't already dead, he'd go and kill him for making John feel this way. Out of all the miserable, small-minded, ordinary people in this world, John was the least deserving of sadness or suffering.

Not all of what John had said could be heard, but the wind had carried a few phrases to him. He'd heard John beg him to do it again, perform a miracle and stun the world once more. After all of this, after Sherlock had tried to force John to hate him, to get him to move on… John still stubbornly believed in him. Love forced Sherlock over the edge. It drove him to attempt to alienate the man he loved, so that man could move forward in life. But John was also in love, and while John was loyal, brave and selfless on a normal day, when it was directed at someone he cared about he was practically an unstoppable force. He still believed in Sherlock Holmes.

_I'll give you reason to believe, John._

He'd stepped over the edge now, and there was no going back.

_I will make them pay, and I will return._

_Some miracles take time._

* * *

John still went to St. Bart's every so often. Just as a quick walkthrough, see how the place was doing. Sometimes he would see Molly there, and he'd take her to tea and they'd have a chat. He never went up to the roof.

Molly was always sympathetic. Out of all the people that John knew, and the people that had known Sherlock, Molly alone seemed to partially understand. She'd been infatuated with the detective, after all, and she was good at reading people, just like John was. They both had great depths underneath their calm waters.

John would enquire about her social life, and Molly would tell him about her latest boyfriend, or the lovely party she'd gone to, or this film at the cinema that was quite good, he really should go and take it in. She would talk and talk, and finally she would get around to asking John how he was doing. He would give short, polite replies, and she'd tell him to look after himself, and that would be the end of that. Occasionally he'd give her something Mrs. Hudson had baked, and she'd tell him to thank her, and they'd hug. He still lived at 221b Baker Street. He couldn't tear himself away.

It was simple, nothing much, but it gave him a little bit of comfort.

This time was different.

"Any girlfriends?"

John shook his head.

"Any boyfriends?"

He smiled and chuckled, and shook his head again.

"How's the job?"

"It's good." He shrugged.

"How is Harry doing? Is she sticking with the program?"

"She's doing great, actually. I've had a lot more time to help her out, now that…" He paused, his throat loosening and constricting, unable to finish his sentence.

Molly leaned forward, placing her hands on top of his. "John," she said carefully. Her eyes were strangely intense, boring into him, as though the next words she said were of international importance. "It's all right."

He shook his head. "No, it's not," he replied. Those words, that phrase, dredged up memories, and he swallowed hard.

"John," Molly said gently. Those eyes would not leave his face. "Some miracles take time."

He gazed at her, startled. He was unsure what made her say that, although in time he would learn that it was a message carefully delivered and much rehearsed, but despite his confusion he felt a warm blossoming of hope within him. He felt with certainty that indeed, it would be all right. And he knew, somehow, that there was a miracle coming. He just had to give it time.

For the first time in two and a half years, John allowed himself to creep towards the edge of hope once again.


End file.
